


The Emperor

by KaenOkami



Category: Akatsuki no Yona | Yona of the Dawn
Genre: Angst, Family, Family Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Gen Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26890912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaenOkami/pseuds/KaenOkami
Summary: Eventually, Su-won had had to accept that he was never going to be his father's son.
Kudos: 18





	The Emperor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for "The Hero's Journey" Akayona tarot zine.

The first memory that Su-won can recall is being taught sternly not to introduce himself to people with a friendly, “Hello! My name is Su-won!” 

Such an open and casual address was unbecoming for someone of his blood, he had been informed. The proper thing for him to say was, “I am Su-won, son of Prince Yu-hon.”

Not “Prince Su-won” either, mind. He was of the noblest blood in all Kouka, true, and would always be called by a title of honor and respect. But only a son of the king and a potential heir to the throne would be permitted to call himself a _prince._ For anyone else to do so would be as presumptuous and insulting as a commoner who brazenly crowned himself king. 

“Never mind it, son,” his father would mutter. “How meaningful it is to be called Prince ebbs and flows like the ocean. I hold the title of General with far greater pride, for it is one I earned and kept for myself. What I gained from it came from my own blood, sweat, and strength, and not by anyone else’s _favor.”_

His father had delivered this speech many times before his death; to no one but his son would Yu-hon speak this much or this baldly. Su-won was four the first time he had been audience to it, sitting on the short stone wall of the royal training court as night darkened around them.

“So you _don’t_ mind that Grandpa Ju-nam didn’t name you king?”

Yu-hon stopped in mid-swing of his sword, turning to look at his son with a spark of irritation in his eyes. “What? Who told you that?”

Su-won glanced to the side, idly kicking his small legs, precise voices and faces floating through his mind. “People. They spread rumors, when things don’t go the way they think they’re supposed to.”

After another moment of unimpressed glaring, Yu-hon returned to his drills. “People like that know nothing. Let their words roll off your back, son, they’re unworthy of your consideration. And Su-won?”

“Yes, Father?”

“To you, it’s His Majesty or King Ju-nam. Show respect. Now...pay attention.” Yu-hon paused. “I have come to terms with the fact that my only son and heir will never be king. But that does not mean you will be passed over, or forgotten. No country lives and dies by its king alone. You will become a warrior, and the pride of Kouka, just like your father before you.”

Yu-hon was not a particularly clever or thoughtful person. He was like a mountain turned into a man, stern and cold and unmoved. As far as his feelings went, Su-won was no different than the rest of Kouka: he admired Yu-hon to distraction, loved him with every inch of his heart, and wished to share in the blessing that the gods must certainly have given him, to become such a powerful hero. 

However, Su-won had what nobody else would ever gain: Yu-hon’s blood, and his attention. Yong-hi had made clear that she wished to have no more children, very soon after Su-won’s birth; he had not learned this from either of his parents and he often wondered whether he had somehow been the cause. Yu-hon could never seem to deny his wife her wishes, and hadn’t said a word of his own thoughts on the matter of siring more sons. He made up for it by resting all of his hopes and dreams on Su-won’s shoulders, and Su-won was more than willing to accept the burden.

To that end, he was willing to follow his father anywhere, in anything. The first real sword he held had been Yu-hon’s, at his age, and he learned its art quickly. (It never quite felt as home in his hand as his father said it should, but he figured that that didn’t matter.) He was permitted to sit on the sidelines at some of the war meetings, provided he promised only to listen. He learned to ride at his side, on the colt of his prized war stallion, no less. 

“Look well on our kingdom, Su-won,” Yu-hon said. The bluffs around Kuuto were his favorite place to take his son riding, for the views they could appreciate from their edges. “It will never be yours to rule over. But it will be yours to protect, with everything you have.”

Su-won nodded. His love for other people so easily blended together with love for his kingdom. “Yes, Father.”

“I understand you’ve already made some connections within Kuuto?” Yu-hon turned to his son with a smirk. “Ju-do told me about that little adventure you had in its underbelly, with Mun-deok’s boy and little Yona.”

Su-won giggled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “We didn’t mean for it to get out of hand. Yona had never seen the castle town before and—”

“Yes, we must obey the will of our rulers,” Yu-hon cut him off, and Su-won did not pipe back up to correct him. “But I heard Mun-deok’s boy showed you up with his power. I won’t have that, Su-won. You must stand above all other men, in strength and stature. Understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

Su-won did not argue to defend the value of his own contribution; keeping that knowledge quietly to himself felt like enough. But at his age, he was still accepting his father’s word as law, and took it for granted that Yu-hon’s encapsulation of power was the superior one. The mountain was emotionless, and could not be dictated to. Nor could it be moved or defied, or pierced by a sword...

...Or so he had thought. 

Until the day he died, Su-won was sure he’d never forget how it sounded when his father’s body was run through, all the breath leaving it in one awful gasp, and collapsed like a stringless puppet to the floor. He didn’t remember what King Il’s face had looked like: blank, like an executioner’s? Angry, like one provoked into abandoning his most closely held principles? Sorrowful, like...well, a man who’d just slaughtered his only brother like an animal? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. 

Su-won had been sure he would be next. Not only had he been careless in running and hiding, too panicked to think clearly, but what would be the point of killing a prince and general and not getting rid of his heirs, too? It had been a week of holing up in their manor before he’d realized that the sword really wasn’t coming down on him, too.

Then once he’d got that through his head...what was he to do? The mountain had crumbled before him, everything that his father was destroyed by one quick movement of a blade. Su-won could barely comprehend it. The only thing he had known for sure was that he could not — could _never_ — allow the same to happen to him.

And he knew now how to ensure that.

He was never going to be his father’s son, not in the way that the kingdom and Yu-hon himself had expected him to be. He could not be the mountain, for that was far more fallible than it looked even if it _had_ suited him. He had instead dedicated his life to the opposite approach. 

The first time he had seen his uncle Il after the murder, he had thrown on a bright smile and run to give him a hug. He doted on Yona, genuinely; once he killed her father, there was no guarantee she’d never find out about what he’d done, and he wished to enjoy what time with her he had left. With his father and teacher gone, he focused on gleaning as much as he could about strategy and combat from his friendships with Hak and Ju-do. And he flexed his fingers a little more every day on the unseen strings that set Kuuto in motion when he played at them. 

Rather than the mountain, Su-won was the water that wore down the stone, the wind that cut through the skin and froze to the bone, the shadow that traveled everywhere so it could see and know all. 

Grown now, after ten years of setting everything necessary for his coup in motion, Su-won considered that. He sat alone in his room as the night dragged on, unable to sleep, idly cradling a sword in his hands.

“Father,” he murmured so softly that he barely heard himself. “I’m sorry to tell you that you were wrong. I was never going to be like you. Had you lived...I fear I would have disappointed you with our differences. You truly did wish for the crown, and never got it. I still care nothing for it, for its own sake, and yet...”

In twenty-four hours, Il would be dead, and Su-won would be king. He would rule in his own way, not in any imitation of his father’s one brute-force approach. And he would use every breath of life he had left to forge Kouka into the greatest empire in the world.


End file.
